Short Story

In the quaint town of Mapleton, lived perfect children, who made their beds, said their prayers, and obeyed their elders… However, at the top of Bounty Hill stood a curse upon the Hamlet, hidden behind decades of vines. When the crumbling, weathered manor was inspected closely, one could notice the dark remnants of a fiery blaze curling around the building, the charred marks an everlasting memento. If one gazed up at the structure from the wrought iron gates, it would loom over oneself, a dark wraith in a world it no longer belonged to.

Those who were courageous enough to creep past the gargoyles whose grotesque, twisted faces lined the way, would find themselves staring into nightmares of the past, the memories of those long gone echoing throughout. Those few brave souls would whimper at the witching hour, visions tormenting their sleep. No one dared step past the threshold, for fear gripped their soul, sweat trickled down their backs, and their knees knocked together.

The legend of the old Blackwell Manor was ingrained in the town, a tale told to keep the children in line. Sixty some years ago, the building had gone up in flames. It was said that the screams of the family and household echoed throughout the streets, the eerie sound plaguing the dreams of the townsfolk. There were those who were old enough to remember the horrifying night, and the wails of Lord Blackwell as he learned of his family’s death. The next morn he was found swinging from an ancient apple tree, a look of heart shattering grief painted on his face. Now he haunted the grounds, a wandering soul looking for his lost family. Only one night a year, he ventured off the grounds to seek vengeance for the unfair deaths of his wife and children.

On this night many said they saw an ethereal form drift past the gates and vanish into the moonlit streets. Come morning, bodies young and old would be found dead, terror gripping their faces, and the breath sucked out of them. No one knew what took their life, but the churchgoers still refused to believe this, “nonsense,” as they called it. They claimed god was angered that the lifeless had practiced dark magicks, and had punished them for their transgressions. Yet when the time came, they nonetheless locked their doors and windows, and huddled awake in one room for the night. But no matter how hard they tried, sleep would still envelop them, trapping them in the horror filled dreams of their imagination.

Those foolish enough to wander the town on this night were rumoured to be driven mad by the widower’s howling. They were carted away, never to be seen again. The townspeople would only speak of them in hushed voices, their existence erased from everything but the memory of those still living.

Or so the story of Maplewood is told. After all, it’s only a simple tale.